“Stay, then, in the maison.”
Papa hurries toward Talon’s maison, but Maman is returning to ours.
I carry Sylvette inside and rush to the barrel nearest the wall. The cloth sack is halfway down, hidden under a crinoline. Closing the door upon Sylvette, I am again out on the avenue. Running, I pass Maman.
“Eugenie, what are you doing? Do not go back there, I beg you.”
“I must help them.”
“He is dangerous!”
But I do not stop. Pushing my way through gathering workers and rivermen, I shout, “Monsieur Rouleau! Might I speak with you a moment?”
“You already have, and in quite a charming manner.”
“This time truly speak.”
He is still holding his pistol. Hannah stands in front of Estelle, shielding her. Workers have gathered around Monsieur Kimbrell.
“Eugenie!” Maman calls. “Come to me at once!”
“You should obey, mademoiselle,” Florentine says.
I am gratified to see that he looks frightened. But I am frightened as well. Our Lady, help me.
“Monsieur Rouleau,” I say. “I request that you place these prisoners in my care.” My voice quavers. I hope it sounds like indignation.
“You need slaves, mademoiselle? Well, this one, as you see, is damaged. He strikes Alain on the face. “And this one . . .” He steps toward John.
“Monsieur Rouleau. Strike anyone again and you shall lose an opportunity you will bitterly regret.” I hold the necklace up for him to see in the growing light.
“Eugenie!” Maman calls. “Mon Dieu!”
I turn. Sylvette is running toward us. She must have pushed open the door. As she flies at Rouleau, he kicks her aside. She rolls away, yelping in pain. John looks down but cannot help her. Nor I.
“Monsieur,” I say. “Restrain yourself or . . . lose this.” Diamonds and sapphires dangle from my fingers. “The stones have been set by the eminent goldsmith François-Thomas Germain.”
“Eugenie!” Maman cries out again.
“Take it, monsieur. Quickly. Only you must then go to Abbé La Barre and sign your name to a statement declaring that each of the slaves is free forever and that Kimbrell is free of any charge against him.”
Rouleau extends his hand. “Imbécile. Idiot!”
Closing my eyes, I release hold of Grand-mère’s teardrop diamonds, the pretty gold links of chain, the sea-blue sapphires.
Rouleau turns to the rivermen. “I wish to leave at once. Ready the boats.”
Not one of the rivermen moves.
“I command you!”
They stand there, staring at Rouleau.
“Vicomte de Noailles,” Rouleau calls as the vicount and Papa rush toward us. “Order these men to ready the boats for us. This one, I demand you punish.” He takes out a knife and slashes at the rope holding John to Estelle and Alain. Then he pushes John aside.
The vicomte’s face is calm. He regards Rouleau for a long moment. “You may neither command nor order any man here,” he says finally. “The boats shall leave when I declare they shall.”
“Noailles, you’re—”
“Refrain from continuing, monsieur.”
Abbé La Barre appears with a lap desk, but Maman cries, “Non, non! Vicomte, you must not allow this!”
The vicomte addresses me. “Mademoiselle, is that your necklace?”
“It . . . was.”
“You do not value it?”
“I do. But I also value their lives. They must be free of Monsieur Rouleau. He has done terrible things. He did not take care of them, and they became ill. When their mother and uncle died, he did not bury them, and wild animals ate the remains. He is a disgrace to this settlement. I tell the truth. Anyone here shall tell you the same.”
Monsieur Deschamps approaches the vicomte and offers a deep bow.
“You may speak,” the vicomte says.
“Your Excellency, it is true. And I have seen Monsieur Rouleau beating the young man. He had dropped a piece of firewood, and it narrowly missed monsieur’s foot. Monsieur then struck the young man a number of times with a large stick.”
“And he threw Estelle’s boots into the river,” I say, “because the Kimbrells made them for her. She has worn only rags on her feet all this past year.”
“Talon,” the vicomte says. “Can you verify these charges?”
“It is true about the remains. I know not about the firewood incident or the boots, but I assume that neither Monsieur Deschamps nor Mademoiselle de La Roque has any reason to lie.”
The vicomte regards the ground. When he looks up and speaks, his voice is quiet. “Why did you not tell me of all this?”
“I myself spoke to Monsieur Rouleau after the deaths. He gave me his word that the remaining two slaves would have provisions and everything necessary.”
“Oui,” Papa says. “And that was because we all voted on what he must do.”
“But you did not tell me about any of it?” the vicomte asks Talon.
Talon says nothing, and the vicomte becomes thoughtful again. Finally he addresses Papa. “Comte de La Roque. You shall lose this necklace forever. What do you want me to do?”
Papa looks at me and then at the vicomte. “I humbly request that you honor my daughter’s wish.”
“Philippe, non!” Maman takes hold of his arm.
The vicomte turns to Abbé La Barre. “Allow Monsieur Rouleau to sign the paper.”
The abbé holds the desk out for Rouleau. Rouleau glances at Grand-mère’s necklace before scribbling his name on the sheet of foolscap. Then he throws the quill to the ground. Protecting the paper, the abbé steps away from Rouleau. Maman is crying.
“Madame,” the vicomte says. “I am sorry for your distress.” Then he turns away from her. “Put the Rouleau family on one of the boats immediately,” he says, “with all their possessions except those two, who are no longer slaves but free citizens of France. Unbind the American. As the representative of King Louis XVII, I declare it. So be it.”
John and Hannah come to my side, John carrying Sylvette, while Papa tries to comfort Maman. The day’s new light dims. I mean to take Sylvette from John but instead grip his arm as I sway forward. Vaguely, I sense Hannah holding my other arm. Somewhere in the distance Florentine is challenging John to a duel, in French. Then I am seeing that fire again, engulfing my Annette, a roil of fire-cloud that swiftly burns everything dark.
I awake in my bed, the curtain open. Maman lies in her bed, Papa sitting alongside it, one hand holding his forehead.
“Papa, how is Maman?”
He merely nods.
“What is the hour?”
He raises five fingers. “In the afternoon.”
I close my eyes again. Five.
“Papa, I must go to Hannah and Monsieur Kimbrell. Permit this, please.”
Again he gestures listlessly. Do as you please, he seems to say. What matter, now.
“Papa, it is not Hannah’s fault. It was my idea. Let any blame fall upon me, not upon her or Monsieur Kimbrell or John.”
“Oui, oui.”
There is no one at Hannah’s maison. The joiners must still be working. As for Hannah, she could be anywhere. I walk to another large maison being built near La Grande Maison. Yes, workers are there. It surprises me to see Alain among them, on a ladder placed against a chimney. He is handing a stone to someone standing on the roof. A platform is braced against the roof and upon it are other stones, a bucket, and tools. The person on the roof kneels and positions the stone on the chimney, removes it, chips at it with a tool, and replaces it. When he takes off his hat to wipe his brow, I see that he is John Kimbrell fils. And approaching just now is Florentine, a wooden case under his left arm.
“Ah! The fair lady observes her prince.”
This time I make no retort, not wanting to goad him. “Florentine, he did not understand you. Why not leave? If you persist and he is killed, they will send you and your family away. Your pistols have a
lready done enough damage.”
He winces. “They will not send me away! It is a point of honor.”
I am nearly too fatigued to go on but force myself to continue. “Florentine, only Hannah heard you. I doubt that she understood your meaning.”
“But you did, mademoiselle. And you are the one who acted so stupidly, throwing away that necklace for slaves. And you did it because of him.”
“Then perhaps you should duel me.”
“Perhaps I should, but that would be most ungallant, would it not? Therefore, Kimbrell must duel.”
“My lady,” Alain says, after bowing. “Allow me, please, to take Monsieur Kimbrell’s place.”
I had not noticed Alain’s approach. I raise one hand. “Florentine, they will indeed force you to leave. The marquis and the vicomte will see to it.”
“Not over a mere slave.”
“But he is no longer a slave. He is a free citizen of France. You heard the vicomte. Florentine, you are brave and you fully understand honor, but here in America there is a law prohibiting duels. Papa has been making a study.”
“I do not believe you, mademoiselle.”
“Then you risk imprisonment or even . . .” I pause in my fabrication, gratified to see the oily tracks on Florentine’s face. “. . . Execution!”
“Compared to a nobleman, he is nothing.”
“Here, murder is murder. But perhaps you are right. Given your nobility, the authorities may simply choose to send you back to France. Alone.”
An odeur rises off Florentine now. Sour. Like spoiled fish.
“A fate perhaps worse than execution,” I continue. “We find this law ludicrous, but there it is. So perhaps it is best to forget this matter as no one heard you but the Kimbrells.”
“He knows. This so-called free citizen.”
I turn to Alain. “Monsieur, did you hear Du Vallier challenge anyone?”
Alain finally raises his head. “I was . . . mistaken.”
“Bah! Here, villain. Defend that other villain!”
Florentine pushes the open pistol box toward Alain. Alain hesitates, and in that pause, I take up one of the pistols and cock it.
“Mademoiselle is brave!” Florentine cries.
He is wincing again. With outstretched arm, I aim directly at his narrow chest.
“Wait, wait! I cannot—no! Give me the pistol, mademoiselle. Give it to me!”
I do not lower it.
“Mademoiselle! S’il vous plait. I cannot . . . shoot you.”
“Then I shall have to shoot you.” I look directly into his eyes. My hand shakes with some awful anger.
“Mademoiselle, do not fire, I beg you.”
His voice quavers like that of a distraught child. I lower the pistol and discharge its ball into the earth.
Florentine steps forward and pulls the pistol from my hand. His pimples gleam.
“You surprise me, mademoiselle, truly.” He offers a stiff bow.
Then John and Alain are at my side. Florentine walks off, his box of pistols under his arm. I can tell by his shoulders that he is unsuccessful in his attempt not to cry.
“I need to sit,” I say in French.
They lead me to a pile of stones and there I rest, seated upon a large stone. After some time, I no longer tremble. The late-afternoon sun is warm on my shoulders and arms. The scent of newly sawn pine, sweet.
Hannah
Tonight I know not how to ask for guidance. What we have done was wrong, yet also right. All has been gained, and all has been lost. Any possible friendship with Eugenie. Eugenie’s necklace. The good will between our families. This evening Madame de La Roque would not even look at me when I brought their meal. Her anger filled the cabin.
Into my thoughts comes a verse from the little counting song Madame d’Aversille so loves.
Over in the meadow in a new little hive, lived an old mother Queen bee and her honey bees five. “Hum,” said the mother. “We hum,” said the five. So they hummed and were glad in their new little hive.
Tonight Madame d’Aversille hummed the melody as if she were one of the little bees, and for a time I forgot my own misery. Now here it is again.
At the knock upon our door, Father rises.
’Tis the vicomte.
Father invites him to enter and sit near the hearth, in the armchair. But the vicomte stops just within the door. In high-crowned hat and flowing wig and purple cloak, he is a frightening figure. I rise and grip my hands before me. John has risen, too. Father backs away from the vicomte, and the three of us stand facing him.
In English he tells us that we must leave the settlement as soon as another flotilla passes. As for our restored earnings this year, the money will be given to the La Roque family in recompense, however inadequate, for the loss of their irreplaceable family heirloom.
He turns and leaves. We stand there until he is out of view. “Father,” I whisper after closing the door. “Forgive us.”
“There is naught to forgive. Thou and John and Mademoiselle de La Roque have found a way to free two slaves. ’Tis a great thing, Hannah.”
“But our earnings! And our farm!”
Father places a hand on my shoulder. “Your mother will understand, child, as I do. ’Tis our teachings, you know, bearing fruit. Hush now. All will be well.”
As we sit at our table in the quiet, the day’s events rush though me like dreams. Rouleau’s coil of rope, his pistol. The dark capes. The shots. Eugenie’s necklace. Sylvette yelping. The quill pen on the ground. The vicomte there in our doorway.
’Tis like falling in brambles, and thorny canes scraping arms, legs, face.
Heart, too.
But finally the images tire of me and there is only the sound of our fire on the hearth, and the stillness holding it. Then comes a small quiet thought. No one died this day, and Estelle and Alain are free.
Eugenie
“Throw those boots away! She must wash your stockings again. I shall not have the stench of that American leather upon them. Wear your own souliers.”
“But Maman, it is so muddy now, with this rain, my souliers shall be completely ruined.”
“Then do not walk about so. When the Queen—ah, what do I say!”
Maman’s brow furrows, her eyes fill, but she collects herself as if from some near fall. “We must show our new King that we have not forgotten who we are, in this wilderness. When the girl arrives, tell her we need more hot water.”
The girl. She. Maman refuses to say Hannah’s name, nor will she allow Papa or I to do so. She is still so angry about the necklace. Clean that grate and then wash mademoiselle’s stockings—the dirt still shows! And when you have finished, you must sweep the floor again. You have brought in mud!
Maman eats Hannah’s delicious food willingly enough and then, immediately afterward, is so terribly mean. I am ashamed to even think it, but she reminds me, now, of Rouleau. Poor Hannah accepts it all and goes about her work with her usual grace. When she leaves, Maman cries that I have broken her heart—the precious necklace once worn at the courts of three kings, gone forever! “Of all the losses, this is the worst—no, not the worst, but you understand my meaning—and for what, Eugenie? For what? Can you tell me?” Then, when I try yet again to explain, she says that I have lost even the essence of who I am. Throwing away the necklace is proof of this.
“Maman, I at least can fill the pot with water and swing it over the fire. Allow me to do this much, please.”
“Non! I forbid you to do so. She shall do it.”
“Shall she wash my feet as well?”
“Eugenie. Dare not be insolent now.”
“Pardonnez-moi, Maman.” In a meek tone, I beg to keep the boots.
“Non! You must give them away. How we appear is also who we are. But now, how shall you appear at court? Ah, to think that it is gone forever, that neither you nor your daughter, Eugenie, will ever wear the necklace, nor your granddaughter. It is as if you have deliberately severed our connection to the past,
to our family, to France, even, and to everything we hold dear. That is what breaks my heart. And the Du Valliers! They hate us now. All that is lost, too.”
“Maman, it was not my intention to sever any connections with the past. I wished only to prevent more suffering. Can you not forgive me?”
“Non. I am incapable of forgiveness now. What are those two to us? In France they would be considered the lowest of the lowly. You must forget all foolish notions, Eugenie, and then, only then, shall I be able to forgive you. Perhaps!”
To calm Maman—and to help staunch the new flow of tears—I agree that everything will be much different when King Louis-Charles arrives. He shall give this place the shape, the form, it now lacks. But I’m also thinking that he is but nine years old and in prison—if even alive! Still, I say nothing of these misgivings. “The new King, Maman, shall be our raison d’être. Our reason to be.”
“Precisement! But even the Queen, the memory of our Marie Antoinette, should do that. Surely you can see this. You are an intelligent young woman, though you have acted most stupidly.”
“I do see it, Maman,” I say to placate her. And then all is nearly calm between us, but I ruin it by adding what Abbé La Barre told me today—that he is going to open a haberdashery shop and will work in it himself, selling fashionable hats to all who visit here, and to other nobles who come to stay. “He is afraid that, otherwise, he may not have a certain income and will not be able to keep our chapel in good repair. It seems wise, Maman, to learn to care for oneself here. We have no servants to speak of. When the maisons are all built, the Americans will return to their farms. Who is going to help us make this place into something worthy of King Louis-Charles—and of the memory of our Queen? Would it not be wise to begin doing more for ourselves?” I do not add, As Papa has advised.
“When these Americans leave, there will always be others from the settlements around here.”
“But our gold—will it last so long? Father has been learning the craft of joinery, and that is why I—”
“You are not, nor will you ever be, a maid of the kitchens.”
“Oui, Maman.”
“Here she is now. Give her those boots to take away. I forbid you to speak to her except to give an order.”
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